How many miles to Babylon? Three score miles and ten.
Can I get there by candle light? Yes, and back again.

- Traditional nursery rhyme

A/N: A special thank you to mrspencil for her help and encouragement.

Disclaimer: I own no part of Pirates of the Caribbean.

Dies Irae

What had he done that was so wrong?

Mutiny? Mutinies happened all the time; they were part of life on the high seas. Theft? Theft was his business, he thought angrily, his livelihood – theft, and all that went with it! Take what ye can, and give nothing back: the rule of sailor and plunderer, both.

Yet, even as he raged against his fate, Barbossa knew the answer. Alone in the captain's quarters, his sharp mind forced him to confront one immutable truth after another: he was not innocent; he had transgressed. He had taken something that was under supernatural protection. You do not steal from the heathen gods. How many myths and legends make that point? Yet, he had dared it, and now the consequences were unfolding before his eyes; unstoppable, inexorable.

He was damned – damned for all eternity. That was how these vengeful gods treated thieves. And he had no one to blame but himself.

He stared at the little square of moonlight on the chart table.

He had only to extend his hand into that unholy light to see once more the rotten bones with shreds of flesh and nail clinging to them. Keeping his arm folded protectively against his chest, he studied the knuckles of his enfleshed hand, and clenched his fist. He could still feel the first wave of helplessness and horror that had swept over him in that instant when he had learned what despair felt like – true despair, total loss of hope. Blackness.

Using one hand, he pulled a chair away from the table and into the shadows, carefully averting his eyes as he did so, and slowly eased himself into its seat. He must think. If he refused to give way to despair, he might still win: so long as he could use his wits, he was still in the game.

The punishment had been swift and sure: first came the wakefulness, no matter how fatigued they were. They had put this down to their anticipation of the spree awaiting them in Tortuga. But no sooner had they made port in that brigand's paradise, than the truth became undeniable: not a man among them could taste the rich food they could now afford, or feel the effects of the rum that they consumed like water. No perfume could they smell, nor tempting flesh could they feel, no matter how they tried. Starving, thirsty, and aching for the touch of a lover, they were sad, bewildered dogs, all of them.

But Barbossa had been first to discover the worst effect, the final prison: his own body. He had reached towards a seductive, regal-looking strumpet who stood laughing outside the Faithful Bride, just as a thin ray of moonlight punched a tiny hole in the overcast night sky, and illuminated his outstretched hand.

He had drawn it back in an instant, quickly enough to insult the sensibilities of the haughty wench. She turned away from him in a show of distain, but he was hardly aware of her departure. Heart pounding, he had already turned his face to the wall and, thus shielded from prying eyes, was examining his hand closely. What sort of delusion could have made him see a skeleton's bones in place of his own elegant hand? He could see nothing out of the ordinary, but fear gripped him like an iron collar; this was no drunkard's dream, for he was stone cold sober. It was then that he recalled the moon striking his outstretched hand as it had mouldered before his very eyes.

He edged towards a patch of moonlight where he would not be observed, and slowly extended his hand. The moment the moonlight fell upon it, his flesh rotted away and his ring hung loosely on the bone of his finger.

Only the bravest of men would have done what Barbossa did next. Keeping an eye out for bystanders, he moved his arm a bit further into the pale light. Instead of his forearm, more bones appeared, more shreds of rotting flesh. Slowly, the fine lace that hung from his sleeve turned to ragged, dirty tatters, like remnants of cerecloth from some corpse that had lain many years in a neglected grave.

In a state of wordless shock, he slipped away from the noisy crowd and down to the quay. Mercifully, the clouds were once again obscuring the moon; but he would not trust in that celestial veil for protection. He drew up his arms so that the sleeves of his coat covered his hands, and he kept his face lowered until the shore boat reached the Pearl. Once aboard, he strode quickly to his quarters, snarling an order to the watch that he was on no account to be disturbed.

And so no man saw him in that apocalyptic moment when he stood in his moonlit sleeping quarters and looked full in the glass that hung there. A monster looked out at him – a monster with a crumbling face, from which his own eyes stared back. He had cried out in sheer terror at his true state, and felt his bowels and bladder loosen. Helpless, despairing, he had collapsed and fallen to his knees, his mind reeling with horror.

His life was in ruins, destroyed by a divine power he had disastrously misjudged and could not hope to challenge. This power had decreed that he would be trapped forever in a hideous travesty of his own body, with no sense of taste or feeling. At the very moment when riches and physical pleasures of every variety seemed to dance at his fingertips, he found them forever beyond his reach. But the fatal blow had fallen on his pride; his face, his body, were gone. His mind and soul inhabited nothing more than a rotting corpse. What woman would not run screaming at the very sight of him?

So this be the way Hector Barbossa's story ends, he thought in a moment of bitter clarity. Better to die, and quickly.

Drawing his pistol, he aimed at his own chest. He squeezed the trigger, and heard the shot fire. And then? Nothing. He waited, and then pulled his shirt open to look at the gaping wound in his chest. The shot had been good, but the wound began to close as he watched it. No, there would be no blessed release through the door of death, not for him.

Full realisation dawned on him at last: he was doomed to these horrors until the end of time. Utterly undone, he leaned against the bulkhead, weeping with great, dry, gulping breaths. He had the courage to die, but not to live on in this cursed state.

His tears flowed as they had not done since the day his father abandoned them for a young village woman. That had been a lifetime ago, and yet now he sobbed as if he were a child again, grieving over his lost good looks, his ragged clothes, and the wreck of his future days, until his exhausted body could no longer continue.

In the silence that ensued, he began fearfully to consider what he should do. It was essential that he pull himself together; firstly, to restore his own shattered self-respect, but even more, for the sake of his crew, who must never know he had abandoned hope, even for a moment. He brushed the front of his breeches with his hand, felt no dampness, and remembered that he had no sense of touch. Glancing down, he was surprised to find his clothes dry. Looking further and finding no evidence of his deepest shame, he had a sudden realisation that all bodily functions must have departed. Even his eyes were dry.

At this, a grim merriment descended on him. Naturally, he reasoned. Skeletons shed no tears. He even laughed as he laid a shaking hand on his berth and pulled himself to his feet. At least it was one small victory; one throw of the dice that favoured him.

And then, as it had oftentimes before in his life, anger rescued him from pain and sorrow. By what right did the gods break a man like that? The thought filled him with a righteous fury. Aye, guilty he might be, but he was being punished unjustly, disproportionate to his crimes. He would fight back and he would win; somehow the curse could be lifted.

He racked his brain to remember everything he knew about the Aztec curse. There was something about returning the medallions to the chest. If the gold could not be spent, if the theft itself brought down the curse, then it stood to reason that the return of the treasure would be required.

A growing chorus of panicked voices from the deck interrupted these ruminations: his men were beginning to return from shore. They would need him. This was the moment he must rally them — giving them hope, and exhorting them to have faith in him as the man who would lead them out of their Gehenna.

He rose to his feet and, with a strength and vigour that surprised even himself, strode out on deck to take command of his crew. Their terrified eyes followed his progress as he marched up the steps to the quarterdeck.

He faced them with his head held high, and raised his arms for silence.

"Gents," he began, with the confident, swaggering tone they knew so well. "It appears that we find ourselves under a spell that would destroy most men. But you are not 'most men'. You are the crew of the mighty Black Pearl. I know all of ye - know ye like I know every nail and timber of this ship! And I tell you, we brethren will break this curse - and live to pass the story down to our children's children! Are ye with me?"

As the crew roared their approval, he called out his orders: "Then go back to Tortuga, gents! Find the gold ye spent there! And when we return the cursed medallions to the chest, we'll be livin' men once more!"

He watched them scramble into the boats, hoping against hope that his words would prove true. He must show conviction: if the crew sensed that he doubted the outcome, what would keep them from dooming themselves? They would go mad, some of them, and the ship's company would be scattered. He had to hold them together until they could overcome the curse. They would need to search farther than Tortuga to recover the gold they had so carelessly scattered. How much of it would they need to put back? he wondered, as he returned to his quarters.

The inhabitants of Tortuga would recount stories of that night for many years, but the following day saw a measure of calm determination return to the crew of the Pearl, as they lined up to surrender the medallions to Barbossa's keeping. Each man stepped forward in turn, and placed the gold on their captain's table, as he recorded it in the ship's log. Afterward, Barbossa stood at the table, leaning forward with his hands braced on either side of the book as he scrutinised the figures. The final tally was woefully inadequate; only two hundred medallions had been recovered.

He lifted his head as his ears picked up the sound of a scuffle outside his door. A moment later, the door banged open and Bootstrap Bill Turner was shoved into the room by Master Twigg and Koehler. Bootstrap looked frightened, but his expression was set in a way that suggested a certain dogged obstinacy. The other two men scowled like Furies.

"Well, Turner," Barbossa asked slowly. "What d'ye have for me?" He tightened his mouth and fixed Bootstrap with a keen stare.

"Tell 'im," hissed Twigg, giving Bootstrap's arm a sudden wrench. "Tell 'im what ye did when ye went back to Tortuga. Ye were quick enough to tell the rest of us."

Bootstrap looked at each man in turn, and at last seemed to resign himself to his fate. His straightened his shoulders and looked Barbossa in the eye. "I want no part of this," he said. "I never did, only I spoke not a word when you sent Captain Sparrow to his death. I let you kill 'im, an' that makes me the same as you – a mutineer and a murderer." He shook himself free of Twigg's hold, and cleared his throat.

By the powers, old Bootstrap's about to take a stand, thought Barbossa, widening his eyes. Does he still know so little of me?

"We broke the Code – all of us," Bootstrap declared. "And we deserve to be cursed – that's divine justice, that is. But you mean to give back the gold and get off with no punishment. So you'll be a cheat, as well as a mutineer and a murderer." He met Barbossa's glowering look with something like pride. "Well, you'll get no gold from me. I've sent one medallion where you'll never get at it. We damn well ought to be cursed forever, and I've seen to it that we will be!"

"Is that so, Bootstrap?" asked Barbossa, in the same slow, polite tone. He lifted his hands from the table and rose to his full height, forcing the shorter Bootstrap to look up at him.

"And where would the likes of you think to send it?" he added with a smile, as he saw Bootstrap begin to realise his mistake. Self-righteous bastard, he thought. I'll serve you for this.

"Now, I be thinking," he suggested, "that ye should have talked less about yer family if ye meant to play this game with me." He paused, staring down at Bootstrap. Then he rapped out his next words sharply, "Wife-and-a-brat – am I right?"

"You'll never find 'em," Bootstrap insisted, but he was beginning to tremble. "For the love of God, Barbossa -" he begged, but the captain cut him off briskly.

"Aye, now, y' see that's just what I find m'self short of, at the moment," Barbossa replied, staring at him coldly.

Then he raised his voice to its full strength as his temper exploded. "Preach t' me, will ye?" he roared. "Doom us all by yer own hand? Devil rot yer guts, ye maggot!" Bootstrap cowered and raised his arms as if expecting Barbossa to strike him in the face.

Barbossa looked past the frightened man, and shouted, "Master Twigg! Take this Judas-dog topside, loose one of the six-pounders, and tie 'im on – by 'is bootstraps," he added, grinning with sudden inspiration.

As the two pirates dragged Bootstrap out of the room, Barbossa called Koehler back to give orders for the rigging of a hoist to lift the cannon. "Use the main halyard and make it fast to the capstan," he said.

Koehler hesitated. "Will it hold?" he asked.

"Long enough," Barbossa replied.

Koehler grinned. "Aye, captain," he answered with a nod, and departed with all speed to execute Barbossa's orders.

Twenty minutes later, Koehler reported that all was ready. Barbossa stepped onto the deck and inspected the cannon, as it dangled high in the air with the terrified Bootstrap hanging head down below it. "Brace her sharp up to port," Barbossa snapped, and the yard was hauled slowly around until the cannon and the unfortunate Bootstrap hung over the sea.

"How d'ye fancy the view, Turner?" Barbossa called out. "D'ye care to tell us where ye sent the medallion, or shall I send ye to the locker? This be the last time ye'll hear me ask ye."

Bootstrap grimaced pitifully, shaking his head from side to side. Barbossa reacted swiftly. "Then by the powers, I'll send ye to the bottom meself!" he thundered.

Seizing a hatchet from Koehler, he moved quickly towards the capstan, and brought the hatchet down with all his strength, severing the halyard that held the cannon aloft, in a single blow.

The halyard snapped free with a deadly recoil, as Barbossa and the crew jumped out of its way. In an instant, the cannon plummeted into the ocean, taking Bootstrap with it. On the deck of the Pearl, there was no sound, save for the creak of the wooden vessel and the soft flapping of her sails.

Rousing himself from his own thoughts, Barbossa cast a quick eye over the mute assembly of men and snarled, "What are ye doin'? Sayin' yer prayers? Back t' work, ye lice!" He let the hatchet fall from his hand, and the men silently drew out of the way as he returned to his quarters.

Once alone, he considered what plan would best serve his purpose. Where had Bootstrap said his family lived? he thought. Ramsgate? No; Rotherhithe. Then to Rotherhithe we'll go. But perhaps it would be well to make sure of our venture.

He reflected on the best way to discover the means of removing the curse. Then his face brightened. There was one who would know, one with whom he had made an accord. Now that accord had been broken. As he reckoned it, she was now his debtor, having falsely promised to protect him from death – and what was he now, if not dead?

He made his way to his sleeping quarters, intent on changing the rags he wore for better clothes, but when he threw off his coat and vest and unfastened his breeches, the grotesque sight of his rotting remains shook him to the core. Carrion, he thought with revulsion, as he quickly fastened his clothes and dressed himself once more in his tattered coat. He would not attempt to change his clothes again.

Solemnly, he went to his chart table and unrolled a map. He smoothed its edges, putting weights on each corner to hold it down. Then he began to plot a course for Cuba and the Pantano.

Next: The Supplicant and the Priestess - Barbossa meets with Tia Dalma to bargain for her help and to seek an unusual favour.